Waiting For The Sun
I lay in the puddle of who I am,
waiting for the sun to drink me dry.
But the sky is barren of light,
choked by smothering clouds—
They pour, they spit, they bleed rust,
and I drown in what I was.
Is there a piece of me untouched?
Or have the waters washed me clean?
I do not know, I only wait—
for the sun, or for the sea.